


No Clues

by wingeddserpent



Series: Eidolon-verse [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Character Development, Character Study, Disturbing Themes, Families of Choice, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-12
Updated: 2011-07-12
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingeddserpent/pseuds/wingeddserpent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hope's learning some hard lessons. Spoilers for the whole game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Clues

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Hope: character study - Growing up the hard way.
> 
> Note: This work contains potentially disturbing violent themes.

You turn your face, looking away from where they're building the new city. It's a miracle that anyone survived at all, you know that. You know Fang and Vanille did their best but that doesn't stop the sting.

Beside you, Lightning places a hand on your shoulder, and you lean into her. Your father's not coming back. He wasn't one of the ones who was saved, and something like exhaustion winds its way into your bones. She runs a hand through your hair and you wish you had tears left for your father but you don't. Life goes on, you know that from experience. It never gets any easier—life just sort of is. At least you don't have that clock hanging over your head anymore, but there's been so much loss to get here. You look up at Lightning and try for a grin, to reassure her, but her expression doesn't change.

She's worried. About you.

Something primal and _satisfied_ wells up, because she cares and maybe she's not your mother or your father, but she's something. Someone. It'll be enough.

You hear the others approach and you want to groan when Snow asks, "Find him?"

"No," you say, and swivel to face him. "He didn't make it."

Snow visibly flinches and there's satisfaction in that too. Why shouldn't he hurt? He's got Serah back, has his stupid NORA, has everything he ever wanted. And you turn away again. Because that's not fair and you know it. Lightning's grip is almost painful on your shoulder and you welcome it.

"Let's head out, see if we can help," Sazh says, Dajh swings his legs from up on Sazh's shoulders, and something in your chest tightens, because you remember when your father let you ride on his shoulders.

Serah nods and she moves to you and grabs your hand, and you resist the urge to jerk away. Obviously in Serah's universe, friends of Lightning's are friends of hers but you've never been good with intimacy or people, but she's trying to be nice so you let her.

Releasing your shoulder, Lightning says, "Right."

All of you move towards the people of Cocoon. Truth be told, for all they're working to set up a city, an order, there's not much that you can see yet: a couple of crude dwellings all close to one another; people milling about, talking in quiet undertones, watching the surroundings like they're afraid there might be fire and brimstone; soldiers guarding the perimeter, guns out and ready.

All eyes turn to your group as you approach like always, and Serah's fingers tighten around yours. Snow and Lightning both tense visibly and even Sazh has twitchy hands. "What do you want, L'Cie?" asks one of the guards, and you resist the urge to scream.

They can't let go, can they? Always looking for someone to blame, and it's easier to blame the perceived threat than the beings they believed protected them. "We're here to help," Snow says firmly. "We know how life on Gran Pulse works—we can help. You just gotta let us."

"Haven't you done enough?" a woman nearby asks, hands on her hips.

There are murmurs of assent and you grit your teeth. Because they have _no clue_ what you went through to give them a chance, and they don't care to know either.

Lightning juts her chin out, and says, "Don't be stupid. Pulse isn't like Cocoon—you can't just expect to survive. You've got to work for it."

A soldier trains his gun on her. Snow growls, fists clenching and unclenching, and you want to reach out and remind him there's no healing, no Steelguard, no miracles anymore before he does something stupid. "If you cared, you wouldn't have destroyed Cocoon," the soldier snaps, "Now go, L'Cie, or we'll see you hang."

There's a pause, a long pause, and then you shake your head. "There's nothing we can do. Let's just go."

The others all look at you—incredulous—and what do you care? It's not like your father's here. If people are too stupid to accept help when they need it you’re not going to offer it—you tug Serah away and she follows; you smile. The others fall into step behind you.

* * *

You wipe the sweat from your eyes and flick your hair out of your face. You've probably got a sunburn; Lightning will probably scold you, but then she'll help you soothe it and that will make everything worth it. 

The house is starting to come together nicely—sure, it’s not fancy like the ones in Cocoon, but it’s something. Three bedrooms, a living area, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Frankly, you’re just glad you’re stuck putting it all together rather than making the boards or creating the piping. You’ll leave that to people like Snow and Sazh.

For now, you’re all living in little tents, but most of you will eventually move into this house, until more can be made. You shake your head—people in the city aren’t doing much better, but they’re getting by. New Eden, they call it, and you can’t help but snort. Sometimes, you can believe that people never learn. Sometimes, you can believe that people are sheep. And then you wince.

Because that’s belittling Fang and Vanille’s sacrifice. They gave up everything to save these people, and you have to remember that you were a part of that, too. That you believed in the people of Cocoon once upon a time. You can’t become jaded. You can’t.

“Hey there,” says Serah, appearing next to you with a canteen. “Here’s some water, you look like you need it.”

You nod your thanks and take a swig and can’t help but grin at her—she’s red as Lightning’s cape, burned darker than you will be. Although, she’ll probably have Snow fix her up. You grimace—because the image of Serah and Snow really isn’t something you needed right this second. Her expression is wry, and for a second, she really, really looks like Lightning. You blink, then drain the canteen in no time flat.

She takes it back from you, and you stretch, wincing at the feel of your muscles straining. Without your L’Cie powers, you’re back to your former strength without the ease of your former life. You roll your shoulders and can’t help the grimace. Serah gives you a sympathetic look that burns worse than the sun. Without saying anything else, you get back to work, despite the fact you’re sweaty, despite the fact you’re sore, despite the fact you’re still just this side of puberty. You won’t be weak—not again, and if she thinks you can’t handle it she obviously has no clue.

There’s a beat of silence, where the only sound is your labored breathing and your hammer on wood, and then she leaves, and something like regret burns in your chest.

* * *

Crystal cracks beneath your feet and your wince doesn’t require any words. Snow instinctively reaches out to grasp your shoulder and you want to lean into the comfort but you pull away instead. “I see something up there.”

He nods, and the two of you move to it, footsteps on the crystal careful despite the fact that the chances of anything being alive on this husk are slim to none. That doesn’t stop you from looking though.

Snow likes to believe that there’s a possibility there’s still people managing to cling to life up here—even Lightning wants to believe, but most likely, anyone who actually managed to survive has suffocated under the crystal by now.

You grimace and try not to imagine your father.

It’s a piece of twisted metal from some sort of hovercraft, and you turn to Snow. “Your turn, Hero,” you say, and he grins.

He pulls a shovel from his back and begins to chip carefully through the crystal shell while you watch. This’ll be a huge help back down on Gran Pulse because the hardest thing is to find raw materials. Hell, it’s taken you almost half a year to even be able to get up here.

With a grunt, Snow slings the shovel on his back again and then lifts the downed craft. His muscles strain beneath his skin—and you can’t help but admire them.

Whether it’s envy or something more primal doesn’t really make a difference.

You move to him and help lift a side and he flashes you a grin that speaks of relief and you can’t help but smile. Infectious goof, Lightning had said, and there’s definitely some truth to that. The two of you move back to where Sazh is waiting in the almost-ship that had been made from stolen Oerba tech, and Sazh’s and Maqui’s ingenuity.

He whistles at your prize and the two of you grin. “Find anyone?” he asks you.

Shaking your head, you say, “There’s no one left.”

All three of you wince—and you wonder how it is you became the clear-sighted adult at fifteen and a third. You help Snow lift the twisted hover into the ship and when you both sit, sweating and smelly, he reaches out and ruffles your hair. This time, you let him.

Sometimes, you just want to feel like the kid you used to be. Somehow, you think that maybe Snow understands that.

* * *

The knock on your door is frantic and you’re dreading it. It’s not exactly a surprise. Lightning and Serah have been missing for three days; Snow’s been staying with you and Sazh and Dajh just waiting for something, anything. All three of you stumble over each other in your haste to get to the door, and Snow flings it open with a relieved, “Baby!”

Lightning sways at the doorstep, holding Serah, and both of them smell like smoke and burnt flesh, and you gag even though it’s a smell you remember well (magicked fire had burnt skin as well as real fire had) but what scares you is the glassy look in Lightning’s eyes. As the former healer of your family, you know what that means, and your blood pounds in your ears. Snow reaches out and catches them both and Lightning _howls_ and you snap, “Get her inside. Sazh, bandages and those elixirs in the lockbox. Now.”

With care that no longer surprises you, Snow gently sets Lightning down on the couch and then manages to pry Serah from her grip. Serah gets deposited on the other, smaller couch, and you nod at Snow. “Get Serah undressed,” you tell him. “I’ll get Light.”

He nods with a faith that you at once admire and are grateful for. Someone believes in you. You move over to Lightning and very carefully undress her. Until now, you’d never realized quite how many zippers she has, and your shaking hands fumble. Thankfully, she’s unconscious now because no matter how careful you are, you can’t avoid touching the nasty burns. In some places, her clothes stick to her flesh, and you gag and wonder how in the hell the two of them got out.

But this is Light and if it’s one thing she excels at, it’s doing the impossible. Sometimes you wish she’d just let you help; just because she can do it by herself doesn’t mean she should because she gets hurt—and if there are tears in your eyes, she’ll never know.

Her skin’s discolored and weeping in some places and you find yourself praying to deities you don’t believe in anymore that she’ll be okay.

Sazh returns, arms full of bandages and elixirs, and you hold your hands out expectantly; he gives you a roll of gauze and an elixir. The rest he puts at your feet. Despite the fact you can’t heal anymore (but oh times like these you wish you could), you’re still the doctor. Quickly, you move to Serah and analyze. Her burns aren’t quite as severe as Lightning’s, but she’s got some oozing ones too, ones that need attention as soon as possible. You have to work quickly—and you stop shaking.

Time to work.

The first elixir hardly does anything to Lightning at all, and you grimace—you can’t give her too much or her body will shut down, totally overloaded with magic and pain—but your pour another over her, concentrating on the worst burns, the ones at her feet and ankles (and please, please be okay) and slowly, the wounds start to close. You take a breath and then glance at Sazh, and even from across the room, you can see the deepening of lines around his eyes. He’s sent Dajh away. Poor kid shouldn’t have to see this.

Carefully, you pour elixir over some of the bandaging until they’re soppy and then you get to work wrapping her, giving the burns room to breathe a little, and her burns soak up the curative almost instantly.

When you’ve got Lightning mostly patched up, you move on to Serah, and her wounds are less severe, but that’s really not saying much. “Snow,” you snap, and he stops hovering over your shoulder.

You understand, oh, do you understand, but right now—you _can’t_. It’s hard enough as it is, you can’t handle any more pressure, especially when Serah’s hardly breathing and chances are she had gone into shock long before Lightning had been able to rescue her. When you’ve finished with her, you turn to Snow and the man’s eyes are red-rimmed, and yours probably are too, and you reach out to him, and catch his wrist. “She’ll—they’ll—probably—” and you can’t say it, because you have no idea, you’re not a kid at nearly sixteen, but you don’t even know the difference between first, second, and third degree burns. “I’m sorry,” you choke out.

And before you know it, you’re in Snow and then Sazh’s arms, and the only one not shaking is Sazh, the calm one, the strong one, and both you and Snow hold him and each other close, because you’re a family, and you’re worried, and you’ve all lost so much already.

It’s three days before Serah wakes, eyes bleary and pain hazed, and you wish you knew which Gran Pulsian plants eased pain but Fang had taught Lightning about that, and Lightning’s still out. Snow sits on the floor beside Serah and grins up at her; Serah’s gaze meets his and she smiles, blistered lips cracking. “Hey, baby,” he says, voice soft. “You’re home now.”

If she could cry with relief, you’re sure she would. As it is, she closes her eyes briefly, and says in a cracked voice, “There was a burning house on the edge of New Eden. We couldn’t—there was a little girl and a dog inside. We got them out but—”

She falters and there’s a horror in her eyes you don’t think she can begin to put words to. Snow shushes her and you nod at him. Shaking, she snakes a hand out and grasps his—the smile on your face is bittersweet.

Lightning wakes a day later, moaning. You’re at her side in an instant—she’s lucid enough that her eyes snap to you, and for a second, fear registers, and then she recognizes you and that’s relief on her face, and you feel just a bit proud. Because she knows she’s safe while you’re around, and that’s really all you could ask for, isn’t it? Her bandaged hand catches you by the ends of your hair, and her grip is weak but you’re not going anywhere. “They threw us in. We rescued the kid and the dog, when no one else would, and they threw us in, but I think the kid made it,” she murmurs and you feel emotion drain from your face.

Gently, so gently (but your hands are shaking, and not from fear or sorrow this time) you brush her hair from her face. Her eyes flutter shut again but you don’t move your hand away from her, even as her hand falls away from you.

Damn gravity and people who can’t accept that they were saved.

* * *

There’s a lot of things you’ve seen in your life that you never wanted to see—your mother’s death, the Purge, the destruction of a world, Lightning and Serah coming in the door half-dead from burns—but, right this second, seeing Sazh this sick is really taking the cake. You wring the washcloth out and place it on his forehead. There’s not much else you can do that you haven’t already done—you’ve already made the remedies like Vanille taught you, you’ve made soup like Lightning taught you, you’ve tried to burn the illness out like Serah taught you, but he’s still sweating on his bed, awake a third of the time, and delirious the rest.

He talks a lot to someone named Elisabeth, and you assume that was his wife. It kind of hurts that he’s never told you about her, but that’s not the issue here. You sit on the bed beside him and strip out of your shirt, watching the too-hot fire burn.

It had taken you nearly an hour to build that fire—and you can’t help but remember a time when you could have done it in seconds flat. You can’t help but remember a time when you deserved the title of healer, instead of being handed it by everyone else because it may as well be you. No one else knows any better and you love healing, love making people feel better, but you feel useless like this, sitting beside Sazh and waiting, hoping, and you wish again that the familiar spark of magic would return—just long enough to make sure Sazh will get better.

You feel like a kid again, making deals to get out of eating your broccoli. However, the fates are as unrelenting as your mother had been.

There’s nothing else you can do here, except be his moral support, but you’ll do it, because it’s better than nothing, and Sazh is your family. You’re not about to abandon him. With a sigh, you lean your head back against the headboard and drift off—you haven’t slept in two days (since Dajh came to you tear-stained and _begged_ you to make his daddy well again) and you’re feeling it.

Sazh is well enough to get out of bed almost a week later and you head back to your room and crash. You wake later to find him unlacing your shoes and the look he gives you (grateful and _proud_ ) makes you want to cry and you sit up and wrap your arms around him.

He holds you tight and it’s all the thanks you’ll ever need.

* * *

You clutch your boomerang tighter, the metal heated from your grip on it. Lightning glances back at you and nods, and you take the hint and move to stand next to her. The King Behemoth ahead of you continues its path unawares, but it’s strayed too close to the city—and you know that’s why you’re here. Because, even though they hate you, there’s too much remaining of the time when you all tried to save the world to just let the settlement be overrun. Not that you’re not bitter about it—you’ve seen the scars Lightning still bears, the pain that sometimes crosses her face when she’s been running for too long (not that she’ll ever admit it)—but that doesn’t mean you don’t try to be the better man.

You can’t be as understanding as Sazh, or as good as Snow, but you can try and, sometimes, you like to think that’s enough. Lightning’s fingertips are warm on your wrist and jolt you out of your reverie.

She nods her head at the beast, mouths ‘Cover me’, and you reach out to grab her shoulder. By now, she should know better—you’ll always cover her, always look after her; you mouth ‘We’re partners, aren’t we?’ and for a second, you swear she smiles. Then she darts ahead, gunblade flashing.

The Behemoth yowls when Lightning shoots it in the eye and you can’t repress the grin. Neatly, you throw your boomerang just as it lunges toward her. This is familiar—fighting by Lightning’s side—and there are very few things you can think of you’d rather be doing. She back flips and shoots the thing again, taking out its other eye, and you call to her, “Great, Light!”

You catch your weapon and toss it again, hard and fast, because now it’s just a matter of bringing the thing down before it stands; while you can still take it after that, you’d prefer not coming home speckled with bruises and your own blood, you’d prefer not having to carry Lightning back, wondering if this will be the day you don’t make it home in time. Except that won’t happen, because you’d never let her go, because you’re partners and family and who knows what else; you watch her move, that predator’s smirk twisting her face, and your heart stutters in your chest, and you catch your boomerang and throw a potion at her. She flashes you a smile—and you grin at her, and throw your boomerang, and for a split-instant, there’s a jolt of pride in her eyes, and then she turns back to the Behemoth, lashing out with her blade.

This time, you get the final blow, and you catch your boomerang on its return. Almost immediately, Lightning digs into the thing with her gunblade and you fall upon it with the dagger Sazh had given you (“It was mine when I was growing up. I think you could use it,” he’d said and you hadn’t stopped smiling for what felt like _hours_ ). Blood splatters across the both of you and you manage to keep from retching—it helps that you both know which parts of the Behemoth not to cut into—and you start stripping it of meat. No sense in wasting. You’ll all eat for a week with just what the two of you can carry back.

“It was a nice shot,” she tells you, “Thanks, Hope.”

You grin at her and say, “We’re partners, right? That’s what we do.”

Her expression softens and she hefts up a huge slab of meat; you follow her example after you clean and then sheathe your knife. The two of you begin heading back and you’re just starting to enjoy the comfortable silence the two of you build so naturally (because words are hard and neither of you are very good with them) when you notice the way her step falters for that fraction of a second, the way her face crumples with pain and then she bites the inside of her cheek, face perfectly schooled. You reach out with your free hand and catch her by the shoulder.

“Light,” you murmur, and she flinches, but doesn’t shrug off your touch like you’re expecting.

She doesn’t say a thing though, merely stills, her eyes on the horizon, on the route you’ll take home. And your grip on her tightens—because, dammit, you’re here. You’re always here, and for all that she appreciates _you_ , she doesn’t appreciate _that_. “It hurts,” you say, because she needs prompting and you need to know. “A lot?”

Her breath goes ragged—and you’ve seen her cry before, seen her curl up in Sazh’s, Snow’s, Serah’s arms, held her when she cried other times, because she’s strong but she never learned to stop feeling—and she nods. “If I’ve been going too long, too hard—the scars stretch and pull. Especially when it’s cold,” and she looks down at her feet, either glaring at them for causing her pain or turning away from you in shame.

“Trust me,” you whisper, and she nods without hesitation.

With a reassuring smile, you tighten your hold on her shoulder, and she looks up at you, eyes burning with determination (oh, but how you admire that about her—no matter how upset she gets, she’s always stronger than she seems) and she says, “I’d do it again,” her expression softens, not trying to prove anything to you anymore. “In a second. No regrets.”

And as you let go of her and continue the trek home, it occurs to you (not for the first time) just how much better than you all of the others are.

* * *

You find Snow sitting a ways away from the houses. His eyes are locked on the looming crystal Cocoon in the distance and you’ve noticed something off about Snow recently. It’s really not that hard to guess what’s wrong—but you’d rather hear it from Snow himself. “Hey,” you say, and take a seat beside him, just close enough that you can feel Snow’s warmth radiate at your side. “You look upset."

Sometimes, it’s best to start with the obvious and then dig into the deeper issues. Snow glances at you from the corner of his eyes—red-rimmed eyes—and then keeps looking straight ahead. “I’m okay, kiddo,” he says, and he’s the only one who still calls you ‘kid’.

It stings. You won’t pretend it doesn’t.

“Liar,” you say and he shuts his eyes and reaches a hand up to rub at his face.

Snow shakes, a minute movement that seems huge because of his girth. Instinctively, you reach out and place your hand on his shoulder. His hand goes to his necklace and he clutches it like a lifeline, and sometimes, you wish Snow would just let go and realize that he’s more than a hero—he’s a person too. But he’ll do that the day Lightning realizes she’s not invincible and the day Sazh realizes his little boy is growing up and the day you realize—whatever it is you need to realize. Because you’re sure there’s something, but you haven’t figured it out yet.

There’s silence for a few more minutes and then Snow murmurs, “I’ll be okay,” and you’re so relieved he doesn’t call you kiddo that you can’t help but smile. “Really.”

You let your silence be your answer and he bows his head against your scrutiny. It’s hard to see him like this—it’s so easy to rely on Snow’s strength, Snow’s optimism, and it’s hard, hard to think of the toll it might take on him. But you’re family—and you’re not a kid anymore. You can’t just take and not give, you can’t just let Snow choke to death on his own far-flung dreams. “It’s hard. I don’t think this is what any of us thought it’d be,” you say.

He nods, and thank the stars he’s listening. But he doesn’t turn to face you, doesn’t turn his gaze from the husk that used to be your home, and you sigh, silent for a time.

“Snow—if we let them get to us, affect how we feel about each other and ourselves, then we’ve let them win,” you say.

And Snow jerks away from your touch, like you’ve hurt him, and maybe you have on some level. Because it’s one of the things you don’t really talk about—how people feel about you—but maybe you should if it’s affecting you all so profoundly.

“I just—” he covers his eyes with a hand again, “Serah hasn’t been quite right since last year when— And I can’t do anything to help. We saved the world but now everything’s worse than it was before. Hell, Hope, maybe it _is_ our fault. People don’t smile like they used to. Even Dajh is worried all the time. I guess what I’m saying is that maybe we didn’t think this through all the way.”

You tighten your grip on him and murmur, “We can make it through this, Snow. Freedom’s not an easy thing to understand, and maybe they didn’t want it, but they have it. People have to work now, Snow, and is that really such a bad thing? Don’t we all appreciate what we have a lot more?”

He thinks about it for awhile, and then looks at you full on, and tries for a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, but there’s something in his face that suggests that he wants to believe you. Right now, that feels like a victory, and you squeeze his shoulder and he reaches out to you and pulls you into a hug that could be very scary if you didn’t know how much control Snow has over his strength. You hold him as tight as you can—you’ve got to, or else he won’t feel it—and it’s an awkward side-hug, but neither of you really want to move, and it’s not about comfort, it’s about solidarity, and Snow knows you’re here—for him—and that’s enough. That’s more than enough.

You can feel Snow’s tears warm on your skin, but it’s okay. Because he’ll pull himself out of this. There’s too much to lose and nothing to gain by giving into despair and Snow’s never been that sort of person.

He just sometimes needs a leg up.

* * *

Dajh curls up in your bed, nine years old and completely despondent. He wraps your blanket around himself and looks out the window, and you stretch a hand out and bring it down gently on his head. “It’ll be okay, Dajh,” you assure him, “Your dad’ll be back. Snow and Lightning have gone to find him—they’ll bring him back.”

He makes a little noise in the back of his throat and you sit down beside him, and move your hand to his back, rubbing slow circles. “It’ll be okay. I promise,” and Dajh looks at you, eyes shining with unshed tears, and his look is so trusting, because you’re the adult here, because you’ve never lied to him (and you never will, if you can help it).

The two of you sit there on the bed and he eventually moves to cling to your side, still wrapped up in the blanket, and his breathing evens out. You remember what nine felt like—all wide-eyed wonder and fun—and you wish that Dajh could know that, instead of _fear, fear, fear_. You remember what fourteen felt like, what watching your mother felt like, what becoming a L’Cie felt like, what Operation NORA felt like, what seeing Gran Pulse for the first time felt like, what looking at your brand and seeing that eye starting to open felt like, what watching Cocoon fall felt like, what losing Fang and Vanille felt like, and what losing your father felt like.

You remember what becoming an adult felt like, starting at fourteen and taking half-jumps and leaps since then. Because you remember building your house with your own hands, you remember realizing that there was no one to find on Cocoon; you remember that moment when Snow opened the door and Lightning and Serah were there, you remember when you sat with Sazh through his illness, you remember the journey to get Lightning to trust you, you remember coaching Snow through his depression.

You’re seventeen and a few months and you remember what being a kid felt like, but you haven’t been a kid in a long time (since the Purge) and maybe you wish what could have been a kid longer—but then, you’d never even have the opportunity to miss Lightning, and Snow, and Vanille, and Fang, and Sazh, and Dajh, because they would never have been part of your life for a moment, so you wouldn’t even _know to miss them_.

So you’ll miss your old life and your almost life; you’ll miss your parents and Fang and Vanille, but you won’t miss your new family. Because you’ve worked too hard to get here, to earn their trust. And it’s not something you’ll ever let yourself lose.

Apparently, you’re not the only who feels that way. Lightning and Snow bring a dazed but otherwise unharmed Sazh back the next day. Both you and Dajh cry. And life goes on, like it always does.


End file.
